November 27, at the Li Marshal Geller battlefield on Yaochi, 500 light-years from the Ring of Miracles.
In the predawn light, this once-vibrant grassland had become a desolate gray-black wasteland. It was a color that should never have appeared on this planet.
It was the result of the Empire's orbital bombardment of the plains.
For the month before the war, these plains—which stretched all the way to the coast and the mountains—had become a nightmare for the Imperial Army. Tunnels, pillboxes, and minefields had certainly taught the arrogant Imperial ground forces a hard lesson. Whether they were battle-hardened armored grenadiers or seasoned stormtroopers, they could always be caught off guard by an ion cannon shot from who knew where, punching straight through their armor.
Heavy casualties alone would have been one thing. The Tirillo had never conquered half the universe through superior equipment or numbers. They had never lacked willpower, courage, or a willingness to make sacrifices. Nor had they ever lacked for bloody, meat-grinder battles in their history.
But the battlefield on Yaochi was different. The Imperial soldiers always felt that as soon as they entered the battle, they were not only being shot at from hiding, but mocked as well.
The stifling frustration brought on by the tunnels, pillboxes, minefields, and ubiquitous ambushes seemed to be constantly reminding the Empire's arrogant, battle-hardened soldiers: "The times have changed."
The times had indeed changed. At the very least, it was time to revolutionize the army's tactics.
After several major battles on Yaochi, even the most obtuse officers had realized as much.
But innovation was one thing. It was humiliating if it wasn't the Empire's own soldiers—those who always stood at the very front of every war—leading the way.
And if the ones leading the way weren't even the Empire, but